


They're All Ghosts

by arson_co



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dream Smp, Gen, I Made Myself Cry, mcyt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 07:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30085848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arson_co/pseuds/arson_co
Summary: Basically, Sleepybois Inc but they're all dead on Dream SMP.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19
Collections: Dream SMP Fanfics





	1. Pyromaniac

“You want to be a hero, Tommy? THEN DIE LIKE ONE!” a man dressed in red, his cape thrashing behind him, screamed over the sound of crashing swords and cries of monsters.

A boy stood before him in a tattered shirt, sunburns along his arms and defiance on his face. Another boy, this one in a black suit, stood behind the other. His knuckles were white where they gripped the sword in his hand.

A short walk away, inside a mountain lair, a man stared at a simple, wooden button. The words to a happy memory were scratched into the walls, and the wood of a chair dug into his spine. His hands held tight to a shovel, and even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t let go of it.

With his knees to his chest, the man sank further into his chair, ignoring the salty water that was winding its way down his face. He lifted his arms, the shovel reaching the distance between himself and the button. It would only take a small push, a single moment and it would all be over. 

The diamond tip of the shovel grazed the wood, close enough to feel the resistance, but far enough that nothing had been triggered. 

“What are you doing?”

The voice filled the small space, filled the cold room that had been closed off from the world. He froze.

“Phil?” the man in the chair asked, his breath shaky and words quiet. 

“What are you doing, Will?” asked the voice again.

The man in the chair, Will, turned suddenly, his eyes wide and almost, almost scared. 

“Why are you here Phil?”

He faced a man, Phil. Phil’s face was grave, disappointment and worry written all over it. 

Will stared him down, taking in the shorter man’s blond hair, the way it curled around his shoulders and peeked through the green and white striped bucket hat he wore. He took in the worn sandals and the green robe whose hem had been ripped off. He took in the wings, the black expanses curled in the small space, their tips almost reaching behind the chair he stood behind. He took in the black coat, with the rolled sleeves and an old pin that read “Best Dad” in a child’s scrawl. 

“Wilbur.”

The name drew him from his thoughts.

“What are you doing?”

The question drew him to reality.

“Nothing, nothing. Did you know we won? We won the war and, and made Tubbo president!” he shouted, his face stretching into a smile.

“Uh- huh,” was Phil’s only reply.

Wilbur’s face fell.

“Okay, okay, I will admit… do you know what this button does?”

“Uh- huh…”

“Have, have you heard the, the song, the song on the walls… have you heard the song?” Wilbur asked, his eyes following the scratchy letters ingrained in the walls.

“I have.”

“Um you know the one part that goes there was a special place, WAS a special place, and, and it’s not there anymore, not there anymore ya know? It’s not...“

“It is there. You’ve just won it back-” Phil’s steady voice was cut off by Wilbur.

“I’m always so close to pushing this button Phil!” he screamed, his own voice tearing at what little hesitation he still held. “Phil I have been, I have been here like seven or eight times I have been here… seven or eight times!” he finished, throwing his arms wide. The shovel found itself clanging against the wall before sliding across the stone floor as the question rang through the previously silent room.

The sounds of footsteps drew the attention of both men to the surface above them.

“Oh god they’re gonna come in here, they’re gonna… I have to… block this off, I’m just gonna…don’t want them in here, I don’t want them in here” Wilbur mumbled, dragging his feet across the floor to retrieve the shovel he had flung. Soon the entrance to the room was blocked.

With the exit sealed, Wilbur began to speak again, his back to Phil.

“Phil, I, I’ve been here so many times…”

“And you want to just blow it all up.” It wasn’t a question, but Wilbur answered nevertheless.

“Yes, I do. I think I, I…”

“You worked so hard to get this, this land back.” 

“I don’t even know if this works anymore Phil, I don’t even know if it works. I could, I could press it and it might not.”

Phil froze behind him. 

“Do you really want to take that risk?” Phil asked, nervous laughter bubbling out of his throat. “There is a lot of TNT potentially connected to that button.”

“Phil- there was a saying, Phil. Phil there, there was a saying, Phil, uh, by a traitor, uh, once part of L’manburg… a traitor I don't know if you’ve heard of. Eret?” Wilbur asked, turning back to face Phil.

“Yeah-”

“He had a saying, Phil.”

The two men locked eyes, and Wilbur gave a small, sad smile before turning back to the button on the wall.

“It was never meant to be.”

He stepped forwards, resting his hand against the button, his hand still tight around the shaft of the shovel he held, and stepped forwards. Wood met wood and hand. A soft hiss filled the air.

“Oh my god.”

Wilbur slowly turned back to face Phil, his face lighting up in a smile.

“You didn’t-”

Phil was cut off by the sound of explosions. Wilbur rose his hand to his face in a final salute. 

Rocks fell from the ceiling, the ground shook, and the deafening sound of an entire country going up in flames followed the gesture.

“Ohhhh my gods!” Phil shouted as the sound dwindled to nothing. He ran to where one of the walls once stood. The view before him, which was once the beloved country of L’manburg, was now a gaping hole in the ground. A crater.

“WILL!” he yelled, his voice ringing as it echoed in the crater. “IT’S ALL GONE!”

They let the silence fill the space for a short while before Wilbur again spoke.

“MY L’MANBURG PHIL! MY UNFINISHED SYMPHONY FOREVER UNFINISHED! IF I CAN’T HAVE THIS NO ONE CAN, PHIL!” he screamed, stepping in front of Phil, marveling in the destruction.

“Oh my god.”

“Kill me, Phil. Phil, kill me. Phil. Kill me. Phil stab me with a sword, murder me now, kill,” Wilbur said, shoving his own sword into Phil’s hands. “Phil. Kill me. Killza. Killza. Do it. Kill me, Phil. Murder me. Look, they all want you to,” he gestured towards small figures in the distance, towards the caped man and children and the monsters hovering around them.

“Do it Phil, kill me. Phil, kill me.”

“You're, you’re my SON!” Phil cried, his voice threatening to break. Water fell down his face, tears.

“Phil, kill me.”

This time it wasn’t a request. It was delivered in the way one might say “bring me some cheese” or “shut the door behind you.”

“No matter what you do, no matter what-”

Phil was cut off by the sound of Wilbur throwing a rock back into the room, the loud thud echoing for a longer time than they had thought possible. When it was done Wiobur spoke again.

“Phil. This is da- it’s the- LOOK, LOOK! How much work went into this and it’s gone!” His voice was hoarse. 

A long moment of silence settled between the two.

“Do it.”

Phil turned to look at his son.

“Do it.”

He pressed the sword against the chest of his cold, against the chest of his greatest accomplishments and worst failures, against the chest of his past, present, and what once upon a time was his future. 

Neither man could look the other in the eye. Both were crying, their tears silently falling to the broken ground on which they stood. 

The sword cut deep, and Wilbur fell.

“You couldn’t just win.” 

They were the last words that Wilbur Soot would ever hear.


	2. Best of Friends

“It’s not your time to die.”

“It never is.”

The words swam through his head as he stared down into the depths before him. The orange and yellow glow gave away its identity as lava, or certain death. 

If he had thought to make himself a potion of fire resistance, an elixir of sorts, he may have been able to avoid his fate. Alass, he did not, and he desired the fate that awaited him. 

Thoughts he couldn’t fight off swam through his head, asking questions.

What if Wilbur hadn’t died?

What if I had listened to Tubbo?

What id I had just shut up?

What if people never want me back?

What if Dream was right?

What if I never get to die?

One step. One step and it would all be over.

It probably wouldn’t hurt. The heat would be so intense that death would be instant. Right?

Again, that traitorous brain sent a wave of thoughts surging forward. Memories. Memories from long ago, from recent days, from all the moments that a person can never forget.

The day he and Wilbur started the drug van, the day he first met tubbo, the day he was kicked out of L’manburg and the day he won it back. He remembered the day he met Ranboo, the days he spent with Technoblade, and the day that Wilbur died. He remembered the days Dream spent torturing him, the day Tubbo cast him out of his own country. He remembered the disks, and their stupid, worthless songs.

He never should have cared. Not for those flimsy little discs.

Tommy inched one of his feet forwards, the ledge on which he stood crumbled a little, the small stones dropping silently into the red waves beneath them.

Last words. What were his last words? What stupid thing had he last uttered before coming back to this place, back to his own demise? 

“Bye, Dream.”

Oh.

His voice had gone unused since the last time he had seen that arrogant, green man. 

Those can’t be my last words. They should be for Tubbo.

What could be said for that boy? He was the best friend of a criminal, of an outcast. He was the best friend of a boy who made and ruined countries. He was the best friend of someone who could only do wrong.

Dream may have been a bastard, but he was right about that. 

Tommy’s toes inched closer to the ledge until one of his feet was dearly dangling before the drop off. 

“I’m sorry, Tubbo.” 

It was a whisper. The words he thought he would never have to say.

He reached deep into his pocket, pulling out a worn and cracked compass. “Your Tubbo” was engraved on the side. He held the compass tight in his hand, feeling the familiar dull throb where the metal dug into his hand.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The words grew. They had started as a whisper, but by the time he stopped he was screaming. His hoarse voice and angry throat made sure of it.

He looked one last time at the face of the compass, at the image in the broken glass. There he was. 

His blond hair was nearly brown with grime, and it was matted on one side. His face was bruised, tear streaks that looked like a web across his dusty skin. He looked at the blue eyes that were now a light color of grey, at the purple bags below them. He took in the ripped clothes and too- skinny frame. 

It was the result of exile.

He took that last step.

As the world plummeted, he twisted his body to the sky. He didn’t want to see his death. 

As he watched the reds and greys of the ceiling fall further from reach, a small movement caught his attention.

An outstretched hand, then a head, appeared from the ledge from which he fell. 

A small boy, with fluffy brown hair and curling horns was staring back at him. The boy was crying, he looked like he was screaming. 

“NO!” he seemed to shout.

It was only when he was fully over the ledge that Tommy realized what he was looking at.

It was his best friend. The friend who never visited him. The friend he figured he should be angry with but loved too much to be.

Tubbo’s green shirt was back, he wasn’t dressed like the boy he had last seen. He was his Tubbo again. The crazy, chaotic boy with a plan and the brains to get it done.

He reached his hand up, finding Tubbo’s hand where there used to be air, and he pulled him with. There was no getting back on the ledge no matter what either of them did.

It would be the death of them both, and they both knew it.

They clung to each other as they fell, their compasses forgotten in their descent to the lava below them.

“Why are you here you idiot?” Tommy whispered.

“Because I love you, you’re my best friend,” was Tubbo’s whispered response.

“I love you too.”

And then they burned.


	3. Best of Friends Other Perspective

“I shouldn’t have let him go.”

It was the only thought in Tubbo’s head as he sprinted towards the nearest portal. 

As he stepped into the swirling purple material, he begged. He begged for the familiar drop in his stomach to happen faster. He begged for the dizziness to fade faster than it had in the past. He prayed he’d be fast enough.

Dream, the evil being he was, had come to him an hour before. He had told Tubbo of Tommy’s situation, of how lonely he was.

He had also mentioned that he was close to death.

Tubbo couldn’t let that happen. 

So he ran.

And that was how he found himself here, disheveled and exhausted. He threw off his suit, it was heavy and bulky. This left him in his familiar, tattered clothes he’d had since he and Tommy first met.

Tommy.

Tommy had always been there. Tommy had stood before him and taken the brunt of the damage. Tommy had always taken the beating and the cruel words. Tommy was the one who made him strong enough to stand on his own two feet. Tommy was the one who gave him the strength to do what he needed to do. 

He couldn’t die.

Tommy was too good for that. He had too much life in him. He was too young.

Tubbo sprinted through the darkened paths of the Nether to another portal a few hundred yards away. He found himself at the place of Tommy’s exile.

Logstedshire. The place Tommy had built, the place he called home when his home abandoned him, where was it?

Oh. It was a crater.

Why was it always craters? L’manburg, Logstedshire, Wilbur, they had all been taken away in explosions. 

Rain began to fall, the droplets soaking through his clothes in a matter of minutes. Lightning struck. It was the flash of light from that bolt that brought something to his attention.

A tower of dirt, stone, and everything in between.

It stretched up above the clouds, it’s purpose clear.

“Surely not.”

“No. No. No. No. No. No.”

“Tommy?”

“Tommy where are you?”

His voice cracked. 

“Tommy, come home.”

There was no answer, only the sounds of rain and Tubbo’s sobs filled the silence.

There was nothing that could be done. He didn’t want to see the body. He didn’t want any more proof that his friend was dead.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers finding worn metal inside. 

He had forgotten about the compass.

“What’s the point in this? I can’t find you anymore,” Tubbo asked, his fingers dancing across the inscription on the side.

Your Tommy.

The needle spun. It was only a little bit, but it stopped Tubbo’s tears in a moment.

“You’re not dead.”

The needle would point towards Tommy, and if it moved, he must still be alive.

Tubbo began to run yet again. Back to the portal. Back to the Nether.

The compass turned, pointing him along a cobblestone path.

He followed.

It didn’t take him long to see the tall figure ahead. 

Tommy.

He stood on his cobblestone, feet dangerously close to the edge. In his hand was a twisted metal object. A compass.

Tubbo opened his mouth to speak, his joy crashing and burning as he heard his best friend’s words.

“I’m sorry, Tubbo.” 

He froze at the words.

The words were soft, a whispered phrase meant to remain unheard, but Tubbo heard.

He listened as the words, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” were repeated over and over by his broken friend.

This time, screams shed the air around the two. When Tommy finally stopped, his face was wet with tears, his voice nearly dead.

He looked at the compass for a long moment, taking it in.

Then he simply walked off the ledge.

Tubbo found himself moving, a scream erupting from his own throat.

“No!”

He threw himself over the ledge, towards the boy he couldn’t live without.

His outstretched hands found Tommy’s, and he wrapped his friend into a hug.

It would be the death of them both, and they both knew it.

Tubbo hadn’t planned on dying. He had always pictured him and Tommy growing old together. That dream shattered before him.

It was worth it.

He may not have lived a long life, or a peaceful life, but any life with his best friend was better than anything he could have asked for. He couldn’t imagine life without him, so he simply wouldn’t. He didn’t want a life without him anyways.

They clung to each other as they fell, their compasses forgotten in their descent to the lava below them.

They didn’t look, couldn’t, but if they had they would have seen the red arrows pointing directly towards each other.

“Why are you here you idiot?” Tommy whispered.

“Because I love you, you’re my best friend,” was Tubbo’s whispered response.

“I love you too.”

And then they burned.


End file.
